


(nothing but) my aching soul

by orphan_account



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: All Love Is Unrequited, Angst, F/M, Hanahaki AU, Magical Realism, THERE ARE NO HAPPY ENDINGS HERE, The Betty/Jughead/Archie friendship we all deserve, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 11:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14933753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The petals started coming when he was fourteen. Yellow carnations streaked with crimson, the unmistakable sign of death. He never thought goodbyes could taste like salt and antiseptic, like all the promises they made but never got to keep, like all the plans they made but never got to do.He never thought they’d say goodbye.They were supposed to have the rest of their lives to figure it out. Hanahaki AU.





	(nothing but) my aching soul

_Just 'cause I predicted this doesn't make it any easier to live with_

_What's the point of knowing it, if you can't change it?_

\- Sia, _To Be Human_

 

 

 

Growing up, the only thing Jughead knows for certain is that his father is not an affectionate man. In fact, he never shows affection to anyone at all. Not to him, not even to his sister, and certainly not to his mother.

It isn’t for lack of trying – though he doesn’t resent him any less for it – on rare occasions, he catches the tiniest glimpse of a struggle in his father’s eyes, the desperation on his face to feel _something,_ _anything_ at all, a fleeting hint of an emotion that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

He pities him.

 

 

Jughead is eight years old when he meets the girl next door.

Betty Cooper sweeps into his life, unannounced and without warning, a flurry of hair as golden as the July sun, a smile warm as a December hearth, and wears her heart on her sleeve with such innocuous confidence it frightens and fascinates him all at once.

(Truth be told, she isn’t the girl next door at all – at least, not to him. But in the deepest parts of his mind, the part he conceals from the world and at times even himself, it feels right to call her that. Like she’d always be a steady, ever-present source of light in his life, the one good thing he can hold onto when all life gives him are reasons to give up. For her part, Betty doesn’t seem to mind, so eventually, the moniker stuck.)

Jughead isn’t sure when his annoyance and apprehension at her gregarious disposition and startlingly optimistic outlook grew into genuine affection, can’t pinpoint the exact moment the switch flipped, or if it happened gradually, day by day. He is only certain of one thing: being with her makes him feel a strange, tingling sensation in his chest and leaves him craving something – something still too obscure and intangible to his young mind – that he never imagined he can, or has the right to want, even in his wildest dreams.

Like the affection-starved person that he is, he’s drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

 

 

Jughead is ten years old when he and Betty first spend time alone together.

Granted, he wasn’t her first choice, but whether through sheer luck or some kind of divine intervention, he ends up being her study partner for the day when Archie has to take a rain check with a hasty promise to make it up to her at a later date. She looks so disappointed then, her shoulders drooping and mouth pursed in a petulant pout, that before he has the sense to stop himself, he’s already offering to be her partner in Archie’s stead.

(To this day, he still doesn’t know what possessed him to make such a bold suggestion, but by God, he’s thankful he did.)

She looks surprised, and for a moment he panics and considers retracting his offer right then and there, maybe handwave it away as a joke, but then that same familiar smile spreads through her face, and he feels pride swelling inside his chest. It’s the first time he made her smile, and he vows for it not to be the last.

They spend the afternoon reading, Betty talking animatedly about Roald Dahl and E.B. White while he listens, only contributing his input when asked to. He finds himself transfixed by the way her voice seems to take on a different, almost reverent tone, the way her eyes drifts unfocused to whatever fantastical land the book pages take her to. And then, when she whispers closely to him her dreams of one day enchanting readers with her words, he knows for the first time, what it feels like to be passionate about something, to have a purpose in life.

When at last they stand on her front porch hours later, the sun beginning to set over the horizon, she beams at him.

“Today didn’t exactly go as I planned,” she confesses. She always had a compulsive need for control, he knows, a trait that compels her to always map out every little detail, down to the simplest tasks. “But I had lots of fun. You’re a really great study partner, Juggie.”

“I had fun, too,” he tells her, and is not at all surprised to find that he means it. “It’s amazing what you get done with a partner who actually likes reading. I’ve been trying to get Archie to read _The Lord of the Rings_ for years and he’s never made it through page 5.”   

She laughs softly, looking down at her feet. When she looks up and meets his eyes again, she flashes him one of her smiles, and he feels something tingle in his chest.

On his way home, he stops by the library, and borrows his first book.

He isn’t sure when his desire to spend time with her out of a selfish need to feel some sort of human emotion he’s been denied all his life turned into something more, but when the epiphany finally hits him, Jughead knows he wants nothing more than to do everything in his power to see her smile every single day, for as long as he shall live. He wants to get to know her, to know all the secrets she would share with him, her light and her dark. He wants _more_. He wants _everything_.

There’s no rush though, he thinks. They’ve got the rest of their lives to figure it out.

 

 

Jughead is twelve when he first notices the changes.

It’s the hottest day of that summer, and it’s to be remembered by the town for reasons other than the scorching heat, as Alice Cooper exercises her power and influence as Captain of the Neighborhood Watch to rope half the town into looking for her missing daughter, Betty Cooper, who ran away from home following a rather heated argument between mother and daughter the previous night.

Of course, being the only two people knew where she wandered off to, Archie gets assigned the mission to distract the adults for a little longer (a task he reluctantly accepts with only mild squirming discomfort), while Jughead makes his way to their secret base, an abandoned and long-forgotten tree house on the edge of Fox Forest where they used to covertly meet up on weekends when they were younger.

As expected, he finds her perching on the tree house, sulking, with only a small backpack for company. Knocking on the bark to get her attention, he leans against the tree and playfully smirks up at her, a gesture returned with a withering glare.

“If you’re here to convince me to go home, don’t,” she says, petulantly crossing her arms, a tone of finality in her voice. A pause. “And get up here before you blow my cover.”

Chuckling, he complies, climbs up and plops himself down next to her on the creaking wood. She still stubbornly refuses to meet his eyes, so he gives her a little nudge with his own shoulder.

“I brought Pop-Tarts,” he tells her in a stage-whisper, brandishing a pack hidden in his jacket.

She huffs. “I’m having a crisis here and you’re all about Pop-Tarts,” a pause, and then, “what flavor?”

He hands her the pack and for the next few minutes, the only noise heard from the treehouse are sounds of tearing plastic wrappers. Finally, Jughead decides it’s time he took initiative for once and broke the ice.

“Hey now,” he says, in his own cajole-Betty-out-of-her-shell voice. “I know you’re still mad at your mom, but I didn’t do anything.”

At that, Betty sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It’s just… she’s so impossible, you know?”

“Want to talk about it?” he offers, and she gives him a suspicious glance.

“Only if you promise not to take her side.”

“Hey,” he says softly, draping an arm around her shoulders. “When have I not been on your side? I’m here for you, always.”

Her gaze soften then. “Sometimes my mother drives me insane,” she admits. “When I try to tell her I’m not okay with it, she brushes me off. It’s like…” she hesitates, as if the very thought that she entertained the idea was somehow treacherous. “It’s like she sees me, but she never _sees_ me.”

He remembers his father’s indifference and half-hearted attempts at caring, his chest constricting at the reminder. “Believe me, I know a thing or two about not being seen.”

“It doesn’t matter though,” she says, quickly wiping at her eyes. She seems willing to drop the subject as soon as it’s brought up. “Archie sees me. You see me.”

“Yeah,” he replies, pulling her close and giving her shoulder a light squeeze. “I see you.”

A few more minutes pass as they sit in companionable silence before she perks up, as if remembering something.

“How’s your throat, by the way? Last time I saw you, you kept having these coughing fits-”

And that’s when their little adventure comes to a close, as Alice Cooper’s screeching voice rings out below them, and behind her, around two dozen people looking equal parts concerned (for Betty) and terrified (at witnessing the full display of Alice Cooper’s patented wrath). Archie comes running soon afterwards, skidding to a close a safe distance away from Mrs. Cooper and giving the two of them his best, _“I’m sorry, I tried”_ look.

“We’re in trouble,” Jughead remarks as they climb down the tree house to face the judgment of the adults. “You’re going to be the death of me, Betty Cooper.”

She only manages to give him an apologetic smile before she’s dragged home by a fuming Alice.

The rest of the day goes by in a flurry. Betty is grounded and banned from seeing him and Archie for the rest of the summer, and Betty’s father brings up their little escapade to Jughead’s father, giving him a lecture about disciplining his son. Not that it makes much of a difference, as F.P. Jones can’t bring himself to care enough to give Jughead anything more than a slap on the wrist for the incident. For the first time, Jughead is thankful, if only just a little bit, for his father’s indifference.

That night, between persistent coughing fits, he finds himself tossing and turning in bed, replaying their conversation in his mind over and over. _You see me._ _You see me._ That was what she said.

And even though it’s foolish of him to even contemplate the very idea, he can’t help but wonder: does she see him too?

 

 

Jughead is fourteen when he finally learns his father’s secret.

He’s been having regular coughing fits accompanied by prickling chest pains for the better part of two years now, but since medical checkups didn’t yield any physical abnormalities, and the coughing tend to come and go, he tries to shrug it off and go about his life as usual.

Little does he know, things are about to take a turn for the worse.

One October, just one week after his fourteenth birthday, Jughead is woken up in the middle of the night by that all too familiar tickle in the back of his throat. Normally, he’d cough a couple times and it’d go away, but this time, it persists no matter how hard he coughs. And he does cough, until his throat feels sore and hoarse.

Something is definitely wrong, he thinks as he sat up and slowly stumbles out of bed.

Suddenly, his throat felt like it was closing up. He tries to take a deep breath until his lungs ached, but he still couldn’t _breathe-_

The next thing he knows, he’s on the floor on all fours, clutching his throat and covering his mouth, trying to get whatever was irritating his throat out, and when he finally does, he freezes.

There, in his palm, is what looks like a yellow flower petal, streaked with blood.

Time slows to a crawl as his heartbeat accelerates. _No_ , he thinks as a hundred different emotions jumbled in his mind, _this isn’t be real, it’s impossible-_

Panicking, he instinctively looks around for a solution when he catches his father standing in the doorway, watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. Jughead could have sworn he almost looks sad.

A thousand different questions race through his mind, but he settles on the simplest one: “Dad, what’s going on?”

 

 

“I was praying you wouldn’t get it,” F.P. says, a weariness in his voice as they sit on the old couch in the tiny living room. “I’m so sorry, kid.”

“Get what?” Jughead asks, the seeds of anger growing inside him. “Dad, I just threw up blood, and if my eyes don’t deceive me, a flower. Cut the crap and get to the point.”

“We call it the flower curse,” F.P. says, and Jughead nearly snorts derisively at the name. “Or if you like the less flowery name, the unrequited love disease. As far as we know, it’s not an officially recognized sickness. The name is self-explanatory: when you fall in love, and the person you love doesn’t love you back, you cough up flowers.”

He pauses for a while, as if to gather his thoughts. Jughead looks at him inquiringly, but otherwise made no verbal attempt to push it.

“It’ll get progressively worse as time goes by, but if left untreated, it’s fatal. How much time depends on the person. Some people survive for years, some die within weeks.”

In that moment, Jughead’s entire world comes crashing down. His entire body feels numb, and his father’s voice sounds like it comes from a distance as opposed to two feet away from him. He feels like half of his body was floating up and the other half was firmly nailed in place. Is this the end? How is one supposed to react to the knowledge that they’re dying? What-

“Son, look at me,” F.P.’s voice cuts through his train of thought as he grabs his shoulders with both hands and shakes him a little. “You’re not going to die. If the other person loves you back, you’ll be cured. And even if they don’t, there are options.”

Struggling to find his voice, he looks at his father in the eyes. “What kind of options?”

“The flowers all bloom from a seed embedded inside you,” he explains, voice increasingly desperate. “You can get it surgically removed, and the sickness will go away. It’s expensive, but we’ll figure something out, we will. It’s been done before, it works, it-”

He wrenches away from F.P.’s grip. “How do you know all this?”

F.P. remains silent, biting his lip, refusing to look him in the eyes. Realization dawns on him.

“It happened to you too,” he says finally. “You said you hoped I wouldn’t get it. It’s hereditary, isn’t it? You had it too. But you’re still alive, so either the person you loved returned your feelings – I imagine that’s not the case here, considering your practically nonexistent marriage to Mom – or you had it surgically removed.”

Another minute passes by as more realizations come crashing down on him.

“That’s the catch, isn’t it?” he asks, voice quiet. “That’s why you’ve always been so… so emotionless all these years.”

“It’s the only way, Jug,” his father insists, but he’s already up and out the front door before F.P. can get another word in.

He walks all night, taking it all in. The first thing he does is identify the source of his illness – a person he quickly identifies as none other than Betty Cooper. Suddenly, it’s like the final puzzle piece finally fell into place: the strange tingling feeling in his chest weren’t simply butterflies caused by some childish infatuation, it was the earliest symptom of the flower curse. In that moment, he feels like a blindfold had finally been lifted off his eyes and he could see his life exactly as it it.

He smiles bitterly. The disease is rare enough that it isn’t registered in any official record, and it chose him, a nobody from the middle of nowhere. The universe sure has a sense of humor.

His next step is to contemplate his options. The surgery is certainly the easiest, but there’s no way he would be able to afford it, and even if he were, it would leave him an empty shell of a person for the rest of his life. A steep price to pay for life. Being a firsthand witness to his father’s emotional state (or lack thereof) all his life, he isn’t sure he found the idea very appealing.

But would it still be better than death?

That or… or Betty. If she returns his feelings for her, he’ll have a chance-

 _No_ , he shakes his head. He doesn’t want anyone’s pity, least of all Betty’s.

He’ll figure it out, in his own way. He’ll leave the door open for surgical removal only as a last resort.

 

 

He sees Betty in the bustling hallway the next Monday. Her face lights up as she sees him, and she gives him a small wave, her way of beckoning him to join her for a chat.

Without another word, Jughead turns around and marches the other way, blasting music in his headphones and shoving his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t glance back at Betty. He doesn’t dare to.

If he stops seeing her, if he stops thinking about her, maybe the flowers will stop coming.

 

 

Jughead is sixteen when it becomes increasingly difficult to keep his secret.

They’ve just started their sophomore year in high school, and he’s never felt the distance between Archie and Betty and himself more acutely than he does right at this moment, as he watches from a corner of the student lounge by the vending machine, as Archie, Betty, and a couple of their friends lounge lazily on the sofas and laugh at something inane that Kevin said.

He bites back his bitterness; after all, it was his own fault they drifted apart. The first few months, Archie and Betty tried to hang on to him, to hold on to their friendships and good memories, but there were only so many cold rejections they could handle before they gave up and stopped trying. He can hardly blame them for that. If the situations were reversed, he isn’t sure he’d handle it half as well.

It’s been hard on him too, but he copes in his own way, by fantasizing about the day he’ll be cured, how they’ll reconnect, and laugh and cry about all the things that they can now finally put behind them. Sometimes, it’s the only thing keeping him going.

Caught in his own thoughts, he almost doesn’t notice Betty looking at him. Seeing him return her stare, she quickly averts her eyes as if caught red-handed. However, their little non-verbal exchange seems to have caught Archie’s attention, who is now curiously studying Jughead with an unreadable expression on his face.

As the last bell rings, Jughead weaves his way through the crowded hallway as fast as he can, praying to whatever higher power that’s out there that Archie isn’t do what he thinks he’s going to do, isn’t going to-

“Hey, Jug.”

Too late.

Holding back a grimace, he carefully arranges his face into his best attempt of a neutral expression, and turns to face Archie, who fidgets uncomfortably. Clearly distance has taken a toll on even the way they interact with each other.

“How are you?” he says finally, and he sounds so earnest that Jughead can’t bring himself to get snarky about the stupid question.

“Good,” he gives him a curt reply, hoping it’ll discourage Archie. He’s about to leave without another word when Archie stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Look, I know we haven’t hung out as much as we used to,” he begins, somewhat hesitantly. “I don’t know what exactly went wrong, but I’d like to fix it. I want us to be friends again, Jug. I miss us being friends, I know Betty does too.”

If he’s honest, Jughead misses him, too, and a tiny part of him wanted to say yes until the mention of Betty’s name gives him a wake up call, reminds him why he’s distancing himself from the people he loves in the first place, and he shakes himself of his sentimentalities at the last moment.

“Sorry, Arch, I can’t,” he says, and Archie looks so deflated that he feels morally obligated to soften the blow a bit somehow. “but thanks for offering.”

Archie manages a quiet, “take care, man,” before Jughead slips out of sight and into the crowd again.

The moment he’s absolutely certain Archie isn’t following him, and can’t see him, Jughead bolts for the bathroom and lets loose a coughing fit he’s been trying to hold back in front of his friends. He finds three bloody flower petals in the sink, and picks one up with a shaking hand.

The flowers didn’t go away.

As if on cue, he thinks about Betty, then angrily pushes the thought of her down the deepest corners of his mind. At this rate, when the slightest glimpse of her triggers this kind of reaction, he’s a dead man walking, he thinks bitterly.

He holds his hand out under the tap, letting the water wash away the blood and the petals, and almost jumps when he sees Archie’s reflection in the mirror, standing right behind him.

Cursing, he tries his best to wipe his hands, but he already knows it’s too late. Archie has seen everything, and damn him, he was careless enough to throw up in the sink instead of inside one of the more private toilet stalls.

“Archie,” he tries to go for a nonchalant voice. “What are you doing here?”

Archie is still standing there, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He can see a multitude of expressions on his face: disbelief, shock, terror, even grief.

“I should be asking you that,” he finally manages. “Jug, what is going on? You just coughed up blood. And are those… flowers?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, if only to calm Archie down a little. “It’s just a sore throat. I’m fine.”

“The hell you are,” Archie spits out, and Jughead is surprised to see that he’s genuinely angry. “Is this why you’ve been avoiding us? Me and Betty? All this time? Why?”

Jughead sighs, defeated. He stares at his shoes for what feels like hours before finally looking up and meeting Archie’s gaze, who remains pinned in one place, hands balled into fists at his sides. He’s never seen his best friend so terrified and angry in his life, and it stirs something within him.

Well, no point keeping it a secret anymore.

 

 

“I don’t understand,” is all Archie can say, after he’s relayed the details of his unusual condition. He’s sitting on the floor in the trailer living room, his gaze fixed on an unidentifiable spot on the ground. “And to think all this time, we weren’t there for you… that I wasn’t…”

“You couldn’t have known,” Jughead waves a dismissive hand. “I made damn well sure that you wouldn’t find out. This was on me. Should’ve figured out I couldn’t keep it a secret forever, but hey, what’s done is done.”

“I just don’t get it,” Archie repeats. “How is keeping yourself away from Betty going to help you? Or her? Do you know how hurt she was when you suddenly shut her out like that? How hurt she still is?”

“I know, but Archie, in case you haven’t noticed, being around her is literally killing me,” he replies, a bit too defensively than he intended.

In response, Archie only gives him a pointed look. Jughead sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know. I know I screwed up. I don’t even want to think about how much I hurt her, how much I hurt both of you. But I don’t see a way out here.”

“Well, she’s never going to return your feelings if you keep avoiding her and act like you don’t care,” the redhead points out, rather bluntly.

“I don’t want her to pity me, Arch,” Jughead insists. “Please, as my best and oldest friend… promise me you won’t say anything to her. At least not until I figure this out.”

Archie, for his part, looks conflicted. “Jug, I still think you should stop shutting her out. Or at least give her a proper explanation if you’re going to. Don’t just pull a disappearing act like last time.”

“Look at you being the mediator,” Jughead huffs, slightly annoyed now. “If Betty cares, she can come tell me all this herself.”

He regrets it almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, but Archie simply says, “She does. It was Betty who told me to come talk to you. She noticed you seem to be avoiding her more than you do me, so she thought I’d have a better chance of getting to you.”

He gets up to leave then. “I’ll keep your secret, Jug, but only if you promise to consider what I just told you.”

The door shuts behind him, and Jughead is left to contemplate his next move.

 

 

Betty paces around her room, occasionally pausing to wring her hands and look at her phone lying on the vanity table. She nervously picks it up, contemplates calling Archie, or even Jughead directly, then puts it down again.

She is so preoccupied with internally wrestling with the to call or not to call question that she nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears several rasping knocks on the window behind her, and is even more surprised when she turns around to find none other than Jughead Jones, the boy who’s refused to even look at her for the past couple years.

Jogging over to the window, she slides it open and regards Jughead with a quizzical look, unsure what to say.

“Hey, Betty,” Jughead begins, seemingly just as unsure as she is. “Look, I know I have a lot to explain, but can I come in first? Before this ladder tips backwards and sends me to my doom?”

Even though she tried to be angry at him, Betty can’t help but crack a smile. He’s still as impossible as always. Maybe that’s why she adores him so much.

So she steps aside and lets him climb his way in. Once he’s safely inside, he reveals a packet tucked inside his jacket.

“I brought Pop-Tarts,” he says, but his voice raises slightly at the end and it comes out sounding more like a question.

This time, Betty doesn’t try to hide a laugh anymore. “You snubbed me for two years and the first thing you talk to me about is Pop-Tarts.”

“Consider it a peace offering,” he says.

“You’re going to need more than Pop-Tarts to bribe me, Jughead Jones,” she says, crossing her arms, then adds with a playful smile, “what flavor?”

Jughead visibly exhales. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“I’m still mad at you,” she tells him truthfully. “And confused. Among other things.”

“But?” he prompts.

“But I’m just glad to have you back.” she says finally, mentally cursing herself for the tears that she knows are already welling up in her eyes. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, Juggie.”

He steps forward and wraps her in his arms as she sniffles into his shoulder. “Not as much as I’ve missed you, Betts. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The moment he touches her, the prickling pain in his chest blooms again and he has to bite his lip to keep himself from crying out in pain. A second later, the tingling in the back of his throat returns, and he has to hold his breath to stop himself from coughing.

But it’s worth it, he thinks. For now.

 

 

 

Jughead is eighteen years old when he realizes he’s running out of time.

Everyone is pressuring him one way or another. His father insists he agree to the surgery ( _“a surgery we can’t afford,”_ he reminds him, though this does nothing to discourage F.P.), and Archie insists he tell Betty the truth (“ _It’ll just make things awkward between us, and it’s not like it’s going to change anything. I already know how she feels about me, my body is telling me that every day,”_ he retorts, and it silences Archie for a couple days before he brings it up again).

One thing he knows for certain, he’s running out of time. He doesn’t simply cough out petals anymore, but entire flowers, recognizable as yellow carnations. At times, he can almost feel the roots and stems clawing at his insides, turning his stomach inside out.

He knows it must be obvious enough for Betty to notice now, no matter how hard he tries to hide or downplay it as a sore throat. She tries to get him to see a doctor, and he obliges, even if only to placate her, as he knows no amount of trips to the doctor can change his condition.

Though he hates to worry her, a small part of Jughead is happy that Betty worries and cares about him. There’s no doubt in his mind that Betty loves him, genuinely and with all her heart.

She just doesn’t love him in the way that he wants to be loved.

In the way that can save his life.

They’re sitting across each other in their regular booth at Pop’s, Betty studying him intently and him playing with the straw in his milkshake, trying hard to avoid her gaze.

He can feel the question coming, can practically see it dancing on the tip of her tongue, any minute now, it’ll spill out, and nothing will ever be the same as before.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Hm?” he feigns ignorance, if only to buy himself a couple more seconds. “What are you talking about?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” Betty grits her teeth. “I’ve been keeping quiet about it for years because I thought you’d tell me eventually, in your own time.”

He closes his eyes, awaiting the inevitable. _Here it comes._

“But now it’s clear that you’d rather to go your grave clutching your secret than tell me,” she says, voice breaking ever so slightly. “I even tried to pry it out of Archie. He’s a terrible liar, still he kept your secret. But I know something’s wrong. I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Betty…”

“I know you’re sick, Jug. I’m not blind. But I didn’t want to push you if you weren’t ready. I just assumed that one day you’d trust me enough to tell me,” A tear slides down her cheek. He hates it. He hates himself for it.

She reaches across the table and grabs his hand with both of hers. “You know you don’t have to go through this alone, right? Whatever it is, I can handle it. Just please, let me in.”

He remembers pushing Betty away, remembers how hurt she was when he decided, out of the blue, that she wasn’t a part of her life anymore. Funny how trying different methods always inevitably lands him with the same results, the same mistakes all over again.

Maybe there’s really no escape after all. Not for his condition, not for his relationship with Betty.

“Betty,” he says finally, taking her hands in his. “You’re right. I’m a liar. I’ve been lying to you.”

“Yes, I am sick. But I can’t tell you what it is. I just can’t. It’ll change things between us, we’d never be the same again.”

Even between sobs, she looks incredulous, angry, and perhaps a bit confused. “What do you mean? What does you being sick have anything to do with us? You think I’d abandon you because you’re sick? I don’t care what it is! We’d still be friends!”

His chest prickles then, and it takes all of his strength not give in to the tickle in his throat. His vision momentarily swims, but thankfully, he regains his composure quickly.

Betty nods, as if she understands some unspoken message he’s unintentionally sending her.

“I see,” she says, wrenching her hands out of his. His chest stings some more. “In that case, I have nothing more to say.”

“Betty…” he starts, but she’s already out the door before he can stop her.

 

 

Somehow along the way, Jughead finds himself dying and the three people closest to him angry at him for different reasons. This was not how he imagined his life would be like at eighteen.

That night, he doesn’t come home. Instead, he walks around Riverdale, taking in the silent sleeping town. Between coughing up five entire flowers and contemplating his life, he’s come to a realization or two.

He may be dying, but he’ll be damned if he lets that happen before he can make amends with those who mean the most to him.

He briefly considers calling or texting Betty, but decides against it. No, after everything he’s put her through, he has to do this in person. He has to see her.

A glance at his watch tells him it’s nearly midnight. No matter, this has to be done _now_ , or he might not get another chance.  

He takes a sharp turn toward Elm Street, a decision he regrets almost immediately as his vision once again swims and his surroundings seem to dance around him in an unsteady rhythm. Ignoring his burning lungs and prickling chest, he jogs down the familiar path, to the one place that was, for many years, more of a home to him than his actual home ever was, and the house next to it, the one belonging to the girl next door, who actually wasn’t _his_ next door neighbor at all.

He’s thinking gibberish thoughts now, he knows, but he doesn’t care. He winds another corner onto Elm, and feels momentary relief when he catches the glimpse of the Cooper residence in the distance, the light in Betty’s bedroom still on.

As he takes another step however, he feels a sudden sharp pain in his chest, one which severity he hasn’t experienced before, and before he knows it, he loses his balance and collapses on the sidewalk.

He contemplates calling for help, but between his malfunctioning lungs, which feel like they’re bleeding, the excruciating pain in his chest, and the fact that most people are most likely asleep at this hour, Jughead quickly deduces that the odds aren’t in his favor.

This will prove to be his most regrettable decision yet, he thinks. If he lives to reflect on it, that is.

Funny how he’s been dreading this day for years, and yet the moment it comes, he feels strangely calm, calm enough to crack jokes at his own expense. His only regret now is Betty.

_Betty._

With great difficulty, he reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out. He taps on Betty’s name on the screen and waits as it rings out, just as another sharp pain leaves him gasping and breathless.

One ring, two rings… He’s starting to think she won’t pick up when he hears her voice on the line. Jughead could swear he’s never felt so happy as in that single, fleeting moment.

“Hello? Jug?”

There are so many things he wants to say. _Please forgive me. I love you._ _I’ve always loved you, even though it’s literally killing me that you don’t feel the same way. I’m sorry. For not letting you know, for pushing you away. I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry it had to end like this._

But his throat tightens and the words don’t come. Instead, he listens helplessly as Betty calls for him on the phone.

“Jug? Are you there? What’s wrong? Jug!”

His vision dims.

Maybe it’s for the best, he thinks.

The last thing he sees is her golden hair and warm smile sweeping past his vision that summer they were eight, before everything goes black.

 

 

 

An eternity later, light trickles in again, in blurry brushstrokes swimming in his vision. Slowly, the world takes shape around him as he registers his surroundings.

Faintly, he hears muffled voices talking, whispering – it’s hard to tell when his entire body feels like it’s been stabbed by a thousand tiny daggers – outside the door, accentuated by the occasional sounds of footsteps pacing back and forth.

Sluggishly, he catches himself yearning to see Betty’s face, before another part of him quashes that thought down.

The two conflicting emotions are still battling inside him when he drifts off again.

 

 

 

When he wakes again – his vision having improved somewhat – he finds his father sitting at his bedside, head propped up on his elbow, somehow looking older than the last time Jughead’s seen him. In a way, it does feel like an eternity has passed between him collapsing on the street and waking up here. It scares him, the sudden realization that the world will still go on after he’s gone, that nothing will remain of him and his short life, nothing more than a passing blip on the radar.

Perhaps for the first time, he truly understands the meaning of his impending death, and it terrifies him and breaks his heart at the same time.

“Jug,” F.P. calls out, voice gruffer than he’s ever heard him, as if he hasn’t spoken in a while.

He tries to summon enough strength to respond, but F.P. stops him. “Don’t try to talk, kid. Just… rest.” He doesn’t say _‘get better’_ , because they both know it won’t get better. It will only get worse from here.

“Archie was here earlier,” F.P. continues, slightly leaning back in his chair. “Along with Fred. Took a lot of convincing to get him to go home, kid insisted on staying here until you woke up.”

If Jughead wasn’t in so much pain, he would have laughed. Not maliciously, no. It’s just that… how did someone like him get to be so lucky, that even after he’s so coldly shut him out, Archie still sticks with him, steady and steadfast, a constant support behind him.

Of course, all thoughts of Archie inevitably lead to thoughts of Betty, so he screws his eyes shut and tries to redirect his mind elsewhere. Beside him, F.P. heaves a long sigh.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he says finally, voice quieter and weary now. “I know I’ve never brought you anything but pain. I’m a sad excuse for a father, and I… I’ve given you this disease that’s killing you.”

Jughead is grateful he can’t speak, because he’s afraid that if he could, the words that would come out of his mouth would be, _yeah, you’re right_. At this point, every conversation he has with his father could be their last, and he would hate for his last words to FP to be ones of bitterness and blame.

“You know, I used to think staying alive was the only thing that mattered,” FP continues. “That I would be prepared to pay any price as long as it kept my heart beating and my lungs breathing. _‘How bad could it be?’_ I kept telling myself, over and over until I believed it. And for the longest time I truly did believe it, that giving up my emotions for a longer life was the right choice.”

“You understand why I wanted you to have the surgery, don’t you? You’re my son,” his voice breaks ever so slightly on the last word, and Jughead’s chest tightens. “I can’t just stand idly and watch you waste away. I can’t. Not when it’s my fault.”

“Dad,” he manages to say, almost panting with the effort to summon his voice, but FP holds up a hand to stop him.

“No, I understand now,” he says, lowering his voice to barely above a whisper. “I don’t agree with it, but I understand, Jughead. I do. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Tears sting at the corner of his eyes and blur his vision. He can’t see his father very clearly, but Jughead thinks this is the closest F.P. Jones has come to expressing any kind of emotion at all, in the eighteen years Jughead has known him.

“Thank you,” he says.

His father looks at him for a long moment. Finally, he whispers, _“You’re braver than I ever was, kid.”_

A moment later, F.P. reaches out, carefully maneuvering around the pulse oximeter on his index finger, and squeezes his hand gently, the first time he’s ever shown Jughead anything close to physical affection. They stay like that for a long time, Jughead basking in his first and last experience with parental love, trying not to dwell too much on the tragedy of it all.

 

 

 

Archie comes back later that evening, armed with a single volume edition of _The Lord of the Rings_. “You were always nagging me to read it,” he defends himself when Jughead gives him an odd look. “That I was missing the essence of the story by just watching the movies. I just remembered that I never got around to it. Might as well do it now, since there’s nothing to do around here anyway.”

“You’re doing this just for me? Aw, I’m touched, Arch.”

Archie, for his part, either missed or deliberately ignored the sarcasm in Jughead’s tone, because all he does is smile (Jughead notices, with slight alarm, that the smile doesn’t quite look right) and settles into the chair next to his bed, while F.P. moves to the tiny, worm armchair in the corner of the room to doze off.

“Besides,” Archie starts again once he’s flipped the book open, “you always did like to watch me read, yeah? You were always saying how entertaining it is, watching me struggle or whatever.”

Subtlety is definitely not Archie Andrews’ strong suit, Jughead thinks. The boy’s heart is in the right place, but that doesn’t stop Jughead from feeling a twinge of… discomfort? Annoyance? Sadness? All three at once? He wants to snap at Archie, to tell him to stop treating him like he’s a dying person (even though he is), or at least be less obvious about it, but he can’t bring himself to verbalize those thoughts. The fight has gone out of him a long time ago.

They get to page 14 (with only one bathroom break and minimal distractions, to Jughead’s amazement) before Archie closes the book and gives him that all too familiar look that he knows means _can we talk?_ and Jughead dreads the conversation that’s about to come even before his best friend opens his mouth.

“I told Betty.” He says finally.

Jughead wants to be outraged, but his voice comes out more like a whimper. “What? Archie, I asked you, as my friend –”

“And as _your_ _friend_ , I’m doing what’s right,” Archie responds, and Jughead is momentarily stunned to see that he means it, and doesn’t seem to be willing to budge from his position. “I did what you asked, Jug. I kept your secret. I respected your feelings and gave you time to figure it out. But it’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to her. She deserves to know. And you deserve closure.”

He’s rendered speechless. Archie is right, he knows. Jughead has always believed that by keeping Betty out of the loop, he was sparing any feelings of responsibility she may feel and retain his dignity at the same time, but now that he thinks about it, maybe all this time, he was just afraid. Afraid of looking the truth in the eye.

“Anyway, I called her five minutes ago when I went out,” Archie says nonchalantly as Jughead curses himself for not suspecting Archie of having ulterior motives when the latter excused himself to go to the bathroom. “She should be here any minute now.”

“I hate you,” Jughead deadpans.

Archie only smiles. “I know you don’t.”

Archie doesn’t even get to the next page when they hear running footsteps in the distance, gradually growing louder. Jughead braces himself. Closes his eyes. Exhales.

When he opens his eyes again, he is greeted by the sight of blonde hair, frazzled from running, and wide green eyes, panicked and searching as the one person he loves so much it’s literally killing him emerges at the doorway, skidding to a stop and panting.

“Jug,” she finally manages, her voice trembling.

An older woman strides into the room moments later and puts a comforting hand on Betty’s shoulder. Alice Cooper.

“Alice?” F.P. speaks up from the corner of the room, having been stirred from sleep by the sudden commotion. Jughead looks to his father, then at Mrs. Cooper, then back again, and the final puzzle piece snaps into place.

_Of course._

The universe does have a sense of humor.

“Come, you two,” Alice says, voice not betraying a single emotion. “I’ll leave you two to talk alone.”

She quickly ushers Archie and F.P. out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Before Jughead knows it, Betty is at his side, practically throwing herself on him, holding him tight. He thinks he can feel the wetness of her tears where her face is buried into the crook of his neck, and the tremble of her fingers as she grasps his hospital gown, but pretends not to notice.

“Did you bring me Pop-Tarts?” he asks, aiming for levity, and she lets out a choked sob and releases him. She’s smiling a little, and he feels that familiar swell of pride, a warmth blooming inside his chest, temporarily relieving the pain.

“You’re in a hospital bed and still the first thing you talk about are Pop-Tarts,” she says, wiping at her eyes.

“It made you smile, didn’t it?” he quips.

“Sorry, I came here on a bit of a short notice.” she says, and he can tell she’s trying her best to match his joking tone, to humor him, possibly for the last time.

“Next time then,” he promises. They both know it’s a lie, but neither says anything.

He’s stalling, he knows that. He’s not ready for this. Not yet. He could live to be eighty and still he’d never be ready.

But then it all comes crashing down at once, and he’s left with no choice but to face it.

“Archie told me everything,” she says.

He waits for her to continue, but catches her inquiring gaze instead and sighs.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re angry with me.”

“Just at the fact that I had to hear it from Archie and not you,” she says, voice still gentle. “Why, Jug? I thought there were no secrets between us.”

“I didn’t…” he hesitates. There is no pretty way to approach this. “I didn’t want you to pity me.”

Tears well up in her eyes again. “Jug…”

“Betty, don’t,” he stops her, voice firm. “I don’t need it.”

She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it. “I do love you, Jug.”

He looks in her eyes for a long moment, searching for any hint of a lie. He knows he doesn’t have to – Betty is someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, and she would never lie, at least not to him.

Betty loves him, and he loves her, and yet here they are. Here he is.

Neither of them knows what to say.

“I’m so sorry, Jug.” She finally speaks up after a long moment.

“Don’t be,” he quickly tells her. “This isn’t your fault, Betts. You’ve given me more than I could ever wish for, more than I deserve, really.”

“But knowing that I could have done-”

“Betty, please,” he tries again. “There is nothing more you could have done for me. All our lives, you’ve done more for me than I could ever hope for. Your love, your friendship. Please don’t think all of those things are meaningless just because you can’t save me now.”

She falls silent again, seemingly contemplating his words.

“You said you’ll always be on my side,” she recalls. “That you’ll always be here for me.”

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say.

He never thought goodbyes could taste like salt and antiseptic, like all the promises they made but never got to keep, like all the plans they made but never got to do.

He never thought they’d say goodbye.

They were supposed to have the rest of their lives to figure it out.

 

 

The hospital is quiet. It’s like the world has stopped spinning, holding its breath. It’s like nothing exists outside of their small, dimly-lit hospital room.

“You should go,” he tells her. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“No,” she says, gentle but firm. “You will not push me away this time, Jughead. I’m staying.”

“Betty…” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“I’m keeping this promise for the both of us,” she whispers, voice trembling. “I’ll be here for you.”

He relents then, and they stay like that for a long while, holding onto each other for dear life.

After what it feels like an eternity, he starts to feel woozy, and seizes his last chance.

“Betty?”

“Hmm?”

“Just… be happy.”

She doesn’t say anything, or she did and he couldn’t hear her from all the ringing in his ears, but he thinks he hears something that could have been, _“I love you”._

In the end, Betty Cooper _is_ the death of him after all.

Betty is twenty years old.

She goes to class, she meets with Archie for coffee, she interns at a small newspaper, she goes to parties and laughs a little too loudly at unfunny jokes.

She rebuilds her life from the ground up. She doesn’t look back. She’s afraid that if she does she may never be able to go on again.

And she can’t let that happen, because she made a promise, didn’t she?

She thinks about him as she breathes in the air, reminding herself that she’s alive. She thinks about him in fond nostalgic conversations with Archie, in every book she reads, every Pop-Tart pack she buys, in the photograph she keeps on her vanity mirror.

She wonders what it really means to love someone. She wonders if that’s what they could have had, if only they had more time. But she doesn’t dwell too long on those things. She would rather focus on the good times. After all, she promised.

She’s not just living for herself now. She’s living for the both of them, and the world has so much to offer, so much to explore, and she plans to live it to her fullest.

There’s no rush though, she thinks. She’s got the rest of her life to figure it out.

_fin._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with more bughead angst! I'm terribly sorry this one was so hardcore, but I truly hope you enjoyed reading it, even if it's in a pain-is-cathartic way. If you did, please let me know what you think!


End file.
